What does the average American know about the deep-culture origins of Halloween? Most see it as sort of a watered-down "fun time" for kids, and an excuse for adults to "par-tay."

Of course some of us know that it was the traditional first day of Winter, the season of the dead; and that the Church co-opted this Pagan (in the high sense of the word) tradition and turned it into a remembrance first (November 1) of all the Christians who have passed on, and second (November 2) of all the souls who have died.

And so in some countries people go to the cemeteries to "par-tay" with the dead. My wife Lila says that in the Philippines, families play cards and mahjong there!

Anyway, take that gap--between the deep roots of the tradition on the one hand, and the knowledge of the average trick-or-treater. Call that distance "A." Well, go "A" again in the same direction, and you'll arrive at how much the average Chinese knows about the holiday.

Yes, Halloween celebrations are on the rise in China. In my city of Shenzhen, you'll find at least twelve celebrations. And where are they?

In the bars.

You can see examples at this link. (Warning: this may "expire" not too long after the holiday.)

This reminds me of one of my favorite holidays, El Cinco de Mayo. Many of my native, born-in-Mexico Mexican friends found my love of the holiday amusing. Apparently it would pass in Mexico with as much "hurrah" (ole?) as , say, Flag Day in America, or a state's Admission Day.

But in my hometown of Los Angeles it was a big deal. Why? "Margarita Madness!" "All-you-can-eat Nachos!" "Buy Two Tequila Shooters, get One free!"

Yes. El Cinco de Mayo in L.A. is largely a product of bar promotions. OK, some people will point out, but the Mexican-American community celebrates this as a day of national pride, like St. Patrick's Day for the Irish-Americans, and Columbus Day for the Italian-Americans.

Agreed. But just as Christmas has been commercialized, so have these "national pride" days.

Well, in China, it seems that Halloween is not migrating from a "national pride day" to a commercial event. It's STARTING as a commercial event, just as Valentine's Day was first promoted in Japan by chocolate companies.

Interestingly, there is a legitimate "Halloween" event in East Asian culture. My first summer in Japan, I was surprised to see several theme parks advertising "haunted houses" in August.

August? That's an October thing!

But in fact, they had "imported" this "tradition" as a way to celebrate what is commonly known in China as "Ghost Festival," celebrated the fifteenth day (full moon) of the seventh lunar month. It may have begun as a blending of a traditional Chinese festival and the imported Buddhist holiday of Ullambana. In Japan, it's known as O-bon (a shortening of the Japanese transliteration of "Ullambana"), and is celebrated in neighborhood parks and temples with ceremonial drumming and dancing.

One common trait of Japan's and China's Ghost Festivals is the offering of food to the departed. This practice may be seen by some as an act of compassion; others, however, make no bones about it: they're appeasing the spirits to prevent any bad luck.

I've just finished reading Three Cups of Tea, the fascinating story of American mountain-climber Greg Mortenson, who, after losing his way near the Himalayan peak known as K2, promised a poor village that he would build them a school.

Years later, he is the head of the Central Asia Institute, and is responsible not only for building schools, but also for teachers' salaries, medical facilities and supplies, clean water projects, and a host of other humanitarian projects. Mortenson truly is, as the subtitle says, "Promot[ing] Peace...One School at a Time."

But, much as my teacher's heart loves the idea of building schools, I'm not writing about him today.

The book references another book, Ancient Futures, by Helena Norberg Hodge, detailing her intermittent stays in Ladakh. But what caught my eye was a quote from the king of the small Buddhist kingdom of Bhutan:

As the king of Bhutan puts it, the true indication of a society’s well-being is not gross national product but "gross national happiness." (page 103)

Further research shows that, since His Majesty Jigme Khesar Wangchuck uttered that comment in 1972, "Gross National Happiness," or GNH, has become the subject of a number of global conferences, workshops, surveys, etc.

A list of seven "Wellness" criteria has been developed for the (admittedly subjective) measurement of GNH. These are: Economic Wellness, Environmental Wellness, Physical Wellness, Mental Wellness, Workplace Wellness, Social Wellness, and Political Wellness.

But I am more intrigued by the simpler list found in the same article. These are the so-called "Four Pillars" of GNH, which are: "the promotion of equitable and sustainable socio-economic development, preservation and promotion of cultural values, conservation of the natural environment, and establishment of good governance."

Let's take a brief look at these--and their challenges--one by one:

1. "the promotion of equitable and sustainable socio-economic development": Of course, we all recognize the importance of sustainability; but that word "equitable" is equally as important, since so often in developing economies, the rich get much richer, at the expense of the very poor.

2. "preservation and promotion of cultural values": as opposed to the wholesale elimination of local culture in the name of "progress."

3. "conservation of the natural environment": When a nation is attempting to pull itself up by the bootstraps, the environment is often considered a necessary casualty. Only the wisest of policy-makers can see the long-term benefit of sacrificing some short-term profits in the interest of environmental protection.

4. "establishment of good governance": Though mentioned last, the other three "pillars" stand on this one. The "goodness" of a government might be judged in terms of how effectively that government manages the other three. It goes without saying that the absence of corruption is also a key factor.

As a five-year resident of China, I've been living with the results of neglecting these Four Pillars. I've been chasing down temples and other cultural relics here in Shenzhen, China's Boomtown, even as they disappear or are transformed into tourist attractions.

And, as a future resident of the Philippines, I am even more sensitive to these, as--after centuries of occupation by Spain and then America--the Islas Filipinas in their over-sixty years of independence still seem to struggle with all four of these issues.

And how about my homeland? How are we doing on measures of GNH? And will it get better after November 4th?

My wife Lila and I decided to make a quick get-away this weekend, so we stayed in Dameisha, a beach resort just outside of Shenzhen, the city where we live.

Our ultimate goal, though, was a Ming-period naval fortress out on Dapeng peninsula, beyond where we stayed.

Near the fort is a rather interesting little temple. I suspect that it was built as a folk temple, housing many of the more popular figures in what some call "superstitious" Daoism (Taoism). These little folk temples often have great images on wall tiles, as well as charming (if sometimes garish) statuary.

So Dongshansi (East Mountain Temple--it's out the East Gate of Dapeng Fortress) has all the hallmarks of such a temple. And yet, a sort of warehouse-like Buddha Hall has been built down near the road, and the place is staffed by Buddhist monks (though I can't tell yet if they're genuine or not). Some signage indicates a Grand Scheme to build a huge temple compound; I don't expect to see it before the end of my sojourn here.

As you browse Lila's pictures below, note the evidence for and against Buddhism: What's Buddhist, what folk? You be the judge. (In addition to the images of the temple, I've given you three of Lila's more interesting pics of the fortress as well. After all, it is one of Shenzhen's "Eight Great Sights.")

Evidence FOR Buddhism at Dong Shan Temple

Left: With the "monk" in the Buddha Hall

Center: A well-attended (note the incense) Milefo (Laughing Buddha) statue living in a hollowed-out tree

Right: Guanyin, the Bodhisattva of Compassion; these statues have been given to the temple rather than be discarded

(Click on any picture to enlarge)

BUT NOTE: Milefo and Guanyin often show up in folk religion as well. There are large Buddha statues in the Buddha Hall (you can see the lotus bases behind us in the picture on the left); these are the only truly "Buddhist" items in the temple. Even the Eighteen Arhats in the main hall of the upper temple can be found in folk temples; and the main hall itself has only a giant poster of three buddhas, no actual statues.

Evidence AGAINST Buddhism at Dong Shan Temple

Left: The temple, comprising three halls, marches up the hillside in the manner of a "three-hall, two-courtyard" folk temple

Center: This is a folk god of medicine. Note the medicine pot in his right hand, and the scroll (of medical knowledge?) in his left

Right: The statue of Guandi, a well-known deified folk hero, also has a Buddhist name, Jielan; but even the attendant monk didn't know that

(Click on any picture to enlarge)

NEUTRAL evidence regarding Buddhism at Dong Shan Temple

Left: The young Chinese man who accompanied us couldn't read classical Chinese characters very well. This seems to be a burial pagoda for heads of the temple, but no information on whether they were Buddhist monks or folk Dao priests

Right: Though I associate these incense coils with folk temples, I have seen them in Buddhist temples (they are designed to burn for 14 days, from a new to a full moon or vice versa)

(Click on any picture to enlarge)

A few scenes from Dapeng Fortress

Left: This tree, just outside the East Gate of Dapeng Fortress, has been famous since ancient times as a "wishing tree." Nowadays, hawkers sell packets that you can throw from the top of the East Gate into the tree. Cheesy, yet beautiful.

Center: One brochure in my files describes this as the "Dapeng Cool Hat."; Lila shot this over my shoulder (stealthily) inside Dapeng Fortress. (Isn't she beautiful?)

Right: This folk temple inside Dapeng Fortress contains an image of the local Earth God (Tudi) and his wife (Mrs. Tudi?) The tile exterior is typical for modern shrine buildings.

(Click on any picture to enlarge)

That's it! Lila and I have thousands of pictures of temples and other sites in China, Japan, the Philippines, Thailand, and more. I'll share some from time to time, and we'll be putting together some (virtual) photo albums and "JourneyBooks" in the near future.

I don't know if things have changed much, but when I was a kid, playground taunts were a most common form of communication. "Stupid head," "ugly face," and other scathingly witty insults were much more common than kind words and pet names.

So naturally, we had to come up with equally witty defenses against such attacks. And, in good playground-ritual fashion, some of these rhymed.

I'm rubber, you're glue.Whatever you say bounces off of me and sticks to you!

OK, it doesn't scan so well, but hey, we were eight.

Another one with better scansion and some internal rhyme:

Stick and stones may break my bones,But names will never hurt me!

But for sheer cutting power, we skipped the rhymes and went straight for the marrow:

Don't call me your family names!

Now, I never quite worked out the syntax of this sentence. Grammatically, the plural "names" raises a question. Don't we (Anglo-Americans) just have ONE family name? Mine is just one name, "Baquet." Where did the other ones go?

If what we meant was "family name," well, where's the sense in that? Like somebody's name was "Bobby Stupidhead"? (I've heard worse.) But it's not like we're responsible for the names we inherit. It's not like Tom Green really IS green, or like John McCain is actually the son of Cain (or is he?)

Anyway, I think what we were doing was just associating the whole family with the insult. It's like saying, "You come from a whole family of Ugly Faces!" (Later we learned to hone in on just someone's mother, but I won't go into that here.)

So even as an American kid I knew that " family names" were important, all the more so because we seldom ever said "family name"; the usual question was, "What's your last name?" or the statement, "My last name is..."

Fast forward to my life on the other side of the earth. In East Asia, with her Confucian heritage, the family name comes first. In Japan, the personal name comes last. In China and Korea, there are usually two-part personal names, so what we see as the "last" name is in fact the second half of the personal name.

Take Mao Ze Dong. He is "Chairman Mao," Mao being the family name. What we see last, "Dong," is part of the personal name "Ze Dong" (sometimes even written "Zedong").

What does this have to do with Confucianism? Simply this: Confucius was all about hierarchies. And in East Asia, your family comes before you. In the West, me first! Family second. Furthermore, because of the structures of the languages, one generally says one's company name before one's family name. So in Asia an employee would be "IBM's Smith John," not "John Smith from IBM."

Here is a lifetime assumption that needs correcting: "Last name" does not have a consistent meaning worldwide. And "I" doesn't necessarily come first everywhere.

Let me close with a funny story: For the sake of clarity, I often use "personal name and family name" instead of "first name and last name." Once, while working in Japan, I had to train some teachers by long-distance, sending out manuals, receiving questions by phone and email, etc.

In one part of the manual, I wrote something like this:"To maintain a friendly atmosphere, teachers should encourage students to call them by their personal names."

Not too long after I sent that out, I got a call from a typically timid (I thought) "new recruit."

"Ummm," he asked hesitantly, "what do you mean by 'personal name'?" So I explained the meaning as above.

Exhalation, laughter, and then "Phew! I thought you meant I should come up with something like 'Raoul the Impaler' or something!"

So much for timidity.

Anyway, one of the reasons I've chosen the expat life is to put myself constantly into situations where my assumptions are challenged and my complacency put on "tilt." You can read a little more about that in my essay, "Rounding and Smoothing."

Sometimes when I sign up for a website (Beliefnet, for example) I find myself faced with the "Religion" question.

"Religion," the category says, and then they give a bunch of choices, none of which fits. If I say, "The Path," the formulation I've come up with, no one will understand.

The Path, in brief, is a way of seeing that leads to personal peace. It's the Perennial Philosophy that underlies all religions, with four steps:

1. there's "something bigger" than us;2. we either are (Western thinking) or seem to be (in the East) separated from this "something bigger";3. there are ways to be unified with it;4. when we do, we'll lead happier, richer, fuller lives.

But that's not all. The Path also underlies disciplines as seemingly-disparate as art, music, math, and science. All the school disciplines are manifestations of The Path, as are psychology and extreme sports, meditation and good sex.

It basically says that what we all want is connection. And when we get it, we'll be happier and more at peace.

I call The Path a kind of "Real Spirituality for Real People." That means you don't have to believe in alien visitors, or crystal power, or Flying Spaghetti Monsters. You don't even have to have faith in a personal "god."

But let's not throw the Baby out with the bathwater. There are lots of things to be learned from the traditional religions.

Because the Path recognizes the metaphorical value in ALL of the stories that make us uniquely human. Some of these are stories of "that" world, stories of the unseen elements, the "other world" that helps us live better lives in this one. In other words, explicitly "religious" stories.

But The path accords equal honor to all of the intellectual, artistic, and emotional productions that set us apart from our non-human brethren. The connection we feel after having a scintillating conversation, or the feeling we have after a virtual stranger has ambushed us with kindness, or the peace that comes in gazing at the ocean or standing inside a redwood--these are all glimpses of The Path.

I'm sitting in the train when, through the crowd of standing passengers, I see a lovely face. Not young-young, but younger than me. Maybe 35, classic, almond-eyed, pug-nosed, pouty-lipped, well-taken-care-of. She's holding hands with someone, but I can't see who.

(Not that it matters. I'm happily married. But that doesn't stop me from appreciating a pretty face when I see one. I once knew a Thai Buddhist abbot who would occasionally mention that a girl was "pretty." Whenever I scolded him, he'd say in his sing-song English, "When I see beauty, I say beauty." I loved that guy.)

Anyway, the ride continues, and at one station most of the crowd empties out like air rushing from a balloon, and I can see who she's holding hands with.

It's her mother.

Same features, but, like, 70 years old. Or at least she looks it. Now, I'm no spring chicken; even a cursory glance at the pictures in my banner above will show that I'm not nearly as cute as I used to think I was. So, would it be indelicate of me to suggest that the whole vintage package wasn't nearly as attractive as the younger model?

What it is, is a visual reminder of impermanence. This is one of Buddhism's "Three Marks of Existence," the shared traits of everything in "this" world (as opposed to "that," which equals Buddhist Nirvana [not really a "world" at all], Christian Heaven, etc.) The other two Marks are: dukkha, often translated "suffering," but better "unsatisfactoriness"--the idea that nothing in this world is quite enough; and "non-self," an indication that everything is connected, to the point where nothing has its own independent existence.

Buddhism has something called the "cemetery meditation." This meditation was sometimes assigned to monks who were having problems with sensuality. In it, the meditator sits in a cemetery observing the decomposition of a body over time. Disgusting? Yeah. But the oft-stated maxim "I am not my body" would thus be brought home in a grim and poignant way. Seeing the pretty woman and her mom is a far less repugnant, but no less obvious, reminder of the same thing.

OK, we're a long way from pretty women on trains. But that's just part of "The Path": learning to see lessons like this in even the most mundane things. As Pacino roared in Scent of a Woman, "I'm just gettin' started!"

As a young man, I had quite a temper. But after becoming a vegetarian in 1994, despite some curveballs that life threw me, I definitely calmed down. There was a time when total strangers commented on how calm I was, how peaceful.

Not anymore.

Last year I was living in a temple. It was an idyllic situation. But a Chinese friend and his sister came to visit. "Everyone knows you," my friend said. "They knew right where your room is." "Yes," added his sister, "and they said you have a bad temper!"

This caught me off guard. Not the reputation one wants, especially as one of the few non-Chinese living in temples in China (and the only one at my temple, if you don't count a Malaysian-born Chinese speaker).

But in May, I found out that I had severe diabetes. (It's much better now, thank you.) By all accounts, Type II creeps up on you quite slowly. And some of the symptoms are (taa daaa) fatigue, confusion, and irritability.

In fact, the reason I went to the doc was extreme exhaustion. But I know that my mental acuity ain't what it used to be (far beyond the mere effects of being 53), and as for my temper: unbelievable.

I have had shouting matches in public with perfect strangers. Sometimes it's been so bad that I've sort of gone "out of body," and seen how ridiculous my rage is even while it's happening.

To be tired and confused bears no moral stigma. But Anger is one of Buddhism "Three Poisons" (along with Desire and Ignorance--the spiritual kind, not the simple dottiness I've suffered of late). To be known as an Angry Person in a Buddhist monastery? Really bad.

So now I know: there's an organic cause. Even though fatigue is no longer a problem, and my blood sugar levels are marvelous, I still dither more than I'd like, and get irritated more than I should. (Bad for the blood pressure, too; but even those numbers are looking better these days.)

What got me on this topic? Today I was skimming someone's website and saw this gem:

"He who angers you controls you."

Wow. That's powerful. Maybe contemplating this will help.

Any other suggestions (especially from those living in the wonderful-but-frustrating country where I live)?

" The first thing I thought when I saw it is, "Why are some letters in italics, and some not?"

After staring at it every time I took my monthly shower (whether I needed it or not), I noted that the only letters not italicized are A, P, and R.

AHA! I thought. But then I realized that that's just a description, not an explanation.

If you live in China for more than 15 minutes, you will surely run into a seemingly-simple situation that is 100% incomprehensible. Neither you nor any expat that you know will have the slightest clue as to what's going on. To make it even more frustrating, the Chinese people around you will not see any problem at all.

And in fact, that "obliviousness" to the problem is a clue to how to deal with it.

In My Country and My People, Chinese scholar Lin Yutang wrote ('way back in the 1930s) that the primary trait of the Chinese was "mellowness." I long struggled with this word, and finally realized that Dr. Lin was alluding to a sort of fatalism that is still prevalent among the Chinese. There is a characteristic smile and shrug that conveys the "mei banfa" of the Chinese, the "shoganai" of the Japanese, and the "Bahala na" of the Filipino. Basically, it means, "What can you do?" or "It can't be helped." Just accept things as they are.

The first step (which is also, paradoxically, the final goal) of Zen is to "see things as they really are"—without fear or desire. It's not easy for a "foreigner" (the universally-used word for expats here—even expats call themselves "foreigners").

But we foreigners have a saying, evoked when confronted with the unfathomable: "T.I.C." It means, "This Is China." Like my insight that only A,P, and R are italicized on the water heater, this is not an explanation. Nor is it an excuse, nor an accusation. Rather, it is simply a statement of how things are.

This Is China. This is the way things are. Stop beating your head against the wall. Roll with it. Deal with it. Live with it.

Maybe if I live here long enough I'll stop going "hmmm..." and learn equanimity.

Why have I continued to teach for nearly thirty years? Hint: It's about love.

I began teaching in September of 1981. Since then, I've taught mostly English. But I've also taught biology, history, photography, Junior Great Books, religion (Christianity), religion ("Buddhism in English") and cross-cultural studies.

I've taught dozens of business and technical English classes. I've tutored English, history, biology, math, Spanish, and study skills; and I've led salons and discussions outside of class.

I have also spent two years as a high school dean; four as an elementary principal; two-and-a-half as "Chief Instructor and Trainer" for the corporate training section of a commercial language school in Japan; and most recently, one as Director of Cross-Cultural Studies for a Buddhist seminary.

I've taught Kindergartners to twelfth-graders in America; junior high kids to 84-year-olds in Japan; and mostly college age in China (though some older students as well).

In addition to school students, I've taught engineers, nurses, monks, hotel employees, and many other working people.

And for six months, I was the one-on-one live-in tutor of an actor's high-school-aged son.

In the end what I teach is not as important as who I teach. Because early in my career, I learned that teaching is a relationship. I dislike teaching 60 students in a class that meets twice a month, because I can't get to know my students. Even in such a class, I take pictures of the students and try to get to know their names and a little about them.

So, why do I keep teaching? Just because of that human touch.

The school where I teach now is a polytechnic school. This is for students who couldn't qualify for any kind of university. (In China, students don't choose their schools or majors; they're placed by test scores.) When I first arrived at the school, an administrator told me these would be "the worst students you've ever taught."

A friend clarified, though: he said "They're really bad students, but they're really great kids."

That has generally been true.

But a few years ago, I had one of my worst classes ever. It was after lunch (usually a bad time), and the students were automotive repairs majors. That means, basically, they lacked the academic skills to place in any higher class, even within the offerings of a polytechnic school. They were disorganized, unaware, and in many cases downright lazy. Because even the simplest English was beyond most of them, to save "face" they would misbehave.

The class leader, Vincent, and a handful of others, were "great kids," though. They would often roll their eyes at the behavior of their classmates (a safe move, since only I could see it—Chinese students seldom "break ranks" and openly criticize classmates.)

For the final exam, I always take my students to another room one-by-one. The plan is: they make a statement of their choosing, and then I ask questions.

A student might say, "I went shopping last week." And then I ask, "Where did you go?" "What did you buy?" etc. Thus, they set the topic (and the tense—those who can't handle the past tense may say "I like movies" and then all the questions are in the present tense).

So, at final exam time, Vincent came in. His English was, to put it nicely, substandard. So he sat down and just stared at me for a minute. Then, struggling, he said, "James... my class... I..."

I could tell that he was trying to work up an apology. How would he put it? After a pause, he blurted: "I love you, James!" and handed me a paper flower he had made, and left.

I should have known "Terry" was a Christian right away. There's something about Christians in China: Perhaps because the environment has been hostile at times, they tend to be a bit more committed, and a bit more consistent, than they might be otherwise. In the past, Christians were likely to be found in Christian families; these days, in the more open society, some young people are converting while their parents maintain traditional beliefs, but a Christian household still seems to be the norm. If Dad converts, everyone converts.

Anyway, Terry was the first Christian I met in China, and his kindness was all the evidence one needed. Countless times he has come to my rescue, especially since he teaches computer science and knows the ins and outs of Shenzhen's electronics industry.

His mother had told him Bible stories when he was a boy; too busy with his studies to follow up on Mom's teachings during his school years, he considered them to be sort of "fairy tales."

But while living in Hong Kong in the early 90s, he was befriended by a local Christian and attended church with him. It wasn't until 1998, though, when he was living in Australia, that he literally heard the call, and literally heeded it. Chancing into a Sunday service one day, he was struck by the pastor's sermon, and responded to an "altar call," committing his life to Christ in front of the congregation that day.

His dedication to his Christian studies is followed closely by his avid study of English, so when we are together (as we often are on the teachers' bus to school these days), the conversation often turns to one or the other of these topics—or both.

Earlier this week, we were joking about me being a "gweilo," a somewhat derogatory but freely-used word referring to white people. It literally means "ghost man," and is often translated "foreign devil." I remembered that the subtitle of Maxine Hong Kingston's book The Woman Warrior was Memoirs of a Girlhood among Ghosts, as her immigrant mother called the various white people around them "The Mail Ghost," "The Milk Ghost," "The Garbage Ghost," "The Meter Reader Ghost," and even "the Social Worker Ghosts" and "The Public Health Nurse Ghosts."

After we joked about this for a while, Terry got more serious and asked, "Is a ghost always a bad thing in your culture?" The question was kind of loaded, because Chinese people—even modern ones—spend a lot of energy trying to avert the danger of having a pissed-off ghost on their hands.

"Sure," I said, "usually. If someone says, 'I saw a ghost,' they're usually going to say it with some distress. I mean, they won't smile and say cheerfully, 'Guess what? I saw a ghost!'"

"But," he said, "in some of my books, God is called 'the Holy Ghost.'"

AHA! Now I knew where we were going. So I had to explain how language has changed, and how at one time that word just meant "spirit." When I was growing up, it was always "Father, Son, and Holy Ghost," but that always seemed weird to me. After liturgical reforms brought us "Holy Spirit," I felt a lot better about it.

It's all just connotation. The Latinate "spirit" is really no better than the German "geist"; no one thinks "zeitgeist" means "ghost of the age." And there's something really beautiful in the assonance of the German "Der Heilige Geist" that carries over into English "the Holy Ghost."

But connotations change. Little kids are afraid of ghosts. So language changes, and we get "spirits" instead. Then, when the language is forced to jump over a cultural divide, confusion reigns. That's why I find it far more important to teach culture than just "language." As a wise old man once told me, "Language without culture is merely a cipher."

HumanisticSpirituality

Who doesn't want to be happy? Humanistic Spirituality embraces and explores all paths--religion, the arts, film and literature, philosophy, science, current events, one’s own intuition--as ways of achieving happiness (the layman's word for "enlightenment").